I remember being three years old standing inside my doorway in a checkered red dress. My older brothers and sisters were on the porch. I heard a shot and a scream. Everybody yelled for me to get back in the house. My sisters flew inside at the insistence of my mother. We watched from the window as police cars came streaming down the road with their lights flashing. There were loud sirens. Then an ambulance followed. I was fighting to get my face to the window so I could see but I wasn't big enough. I became frustrated and cried, wet tears filling my face, so my oldest sister lifted me up. Then word got around that the man who was killed was the boy Jason's father, who lived up the street. I knew Jason and liked him. He had a pretty face and a big smile. Every time he came by the house and I was standing on the porch, he would say hi and call me by my name. Sometimes he would say, "Are you being a good little girl?" Other times he would say, "You look very pretty." I thought about Jason and how he felt. He stood tall and proud and seemed like an old little kid, much older than me. He seemed caring inside and always dressed nice. I never knew my father, so I often wondered what it was like to have a father. I wondered what a man did in the house. Now I wondered about Jason. I wondered if he was going to cry. I wasn't allowed to go to the funeral, but I really wanted to. I wanted to see him and make sure he was okay. I wanted to tell him I wished those men didn't shoot his father.